


Rookie

by foxtrot77



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Blood Gulch Chronicles, Canon Divergence-Red vs Blue, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Like their names are mentioned once, Minor Canonical Character(s), Project Freelancer, Rated teen for language, red team shenanigans
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-14 13:52:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10537824
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrot77/pseuds/foxtrot77
Summary: After the untimely death of Captain Flowers, aka Agent Florida, Freelancers Hawaii and California are sent to Blood Gulch to replace him. Hawaii, assigned to Red Team, starts to regret joining Project Freelancer.





	1. Agent Hawaii Wonders Why She's Here

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the RvB Bingo Wars.

 

 

News of Captain Flowers’s, aka Agent Florida’s, death fell on unsympathetic ears.

“Dead from an aspirin overdose?” scoffed Agent Kansas. “Wasn’t he part of Project Freelancer’s most ‘Elite Team’?”

The five of them—California, Hawaii, Kansas, Montana, and Oregon—were circled up around the war table. They were all waiting for the Director to appear and inform them who would be taking Flowers’s place. Hawaii wanted to deck Kansas in his smug little mouth, but she restrained herself. He would undoubtedly fight back, and she didn’t want to be held accountable for what she might or might not do to him when he did.

Hawaii would be lying if she said Flowers’s death didn’t amuse her a bit. The big bad Freelancer, done in by _aspirin_. If she wasn’t worried about pissing the Director off, she would probably be agreeing with Kansas. And so, she knew, would everyone else.

The door _hissed_ open then, and the five of them snapped to attention. Speak of the devil.

The Director looked more tired than usual, his cheeks perhaps a bit more sunken and the bags under his green eyes a bit darker. He was paler too—or maybe that was just the blue light shining off the war table and every other screen in the room. Were it any of her business, Hawaii would say the disappearance and/or death of almost his entire alpha team was starting to wear on him.

But it wasn’t any of her business.

“At ease, soldiers,” the Director drawled. Hawaii allowed her shoulders to relax ever-so-slightly, and almost everyone else did the same. Only Agent Oregon remained ramrod straight. Kiss ass.

“I’m sure you’re all aware by now of the… unfortunate demise of Agent Florida,” the Director said.

They all nodded.

“These simulation troopers are proving to be more of a nuisance than previously anticipated,” the Director went on, clasping his hands behind his back. “So, we’re going to be dispatching two of you this time.”

“Dispatching us where, sir?” Agent Montana asked.

In response, the Director gave Montana a look to freeze gasoline. Montana looked down at the ground.

“I have chosen two soldiers whom I believe to be the best suited to this mission.” The Director looked at each of the Freelancers. Hawaii didn’t know how the hell he did it, but somehow, he looked her straight in the eyes.

She felt a chill snake up her spine, and she glanced over at California, who seemed equally unsettled.

“Agents California and Hawaii. Report to Hangar F143, there’s a ship waiting for you. You’ll be briefed en route.”

***

Hawaii could see why they’d hidden the Alpha AI in Blood Gulch, a strategically useless box canyon in the middle of freaking nowhere. Before today, she hadn’t even known it existed. She was sure Cal hadn’t either, but she didn’t know for sure; they’d been dropped in Blood Gulch in separate ships to maintain the charade of being on separate teams.

California, top of Project Freelancer’s B-Squad, had been given the honor of watching Blue Team, where the Alpha resided. He had also been allowed to keep his armor, a seafoam green that was passable as a shade of blue. Hawaii, on the other hand, had had to trade in her orchid-colored armor for armor that was dark-ish red.

She hated it.

Her mood didn’t improve when she arrived at Red Base to find it unpopulated and undefended. Had they sent her to an empty base? She checked through the files she’d been given on her helmet screen. There should be three sim troopers here: Dexter Grif, Richard Simmons, and Sargent… Sarge? What?

She entered the base—

—And immediately tripped over about fifty boxes of shells that had been left in a pile in front of the door.

Springing to her feet, Hawaii glanced around, cheeks flaming. There was no one around. With an exasperated growl, she kicked the rest of the shells out of the way and continued her inspection of the base.

The kitchen and mess hall were spotless, though why anyone would stack clean dishes in the sink was beyond her. The armory was… sparse, and there was hardly a box of ammunition in sight.

 _Wonder where those went?_ Hawaii rolled her eyes.

Further down the dismal, steel hallway were the Sargent’s quarters, and as the door slid open she heard the cocking of a gun. Heart racing, she hit the ground, drawing her pistol as she dropped.

 _Bang!_ Ears ringing, Hawaii brought her gun up to aim it at her attacker.

Who appeared to be a cardboard cutout of a soldier in red armor. On a stand in front of the cutout was a shotgun, set to go off if the door was opened. Just as Hawaii was about to stand, a recorded message erupted from the cutout.

“You just got Sarged! Heheh.”

“What. The ever-living fuck.” Hawaii crawled backwards and away from the door and hit the close button.

Hawaii was starting to wish she’d punched Kansas and ruined her chances at this mission.

The next room was probably the most immaculate room she had ever seen. Not a speck of dust could be seen, the walls, floor, and even the ceiling polished to perfection. The bed was made so crisply it looked ready to snap in two. Aside from the metal chest at the edge of the bed full of what Hawaii assumed were clothes and toiletries, the only objects of note in the room were a data pad and three pairs of glasses on the small table next to the bed. For some reason, this room was more unsettling than the room with the hostile standee.

“Okay, this must be Private Simmons’s room,” she muttered to herself, remembering the character profiles she’d been given. The perfectionist, followed orders without question, nerdy as hell.

The next door opened into an empty, dusty room. Hawaii figured this was her room, and she dreaded task of cleaning it out. Not that the bunks were that large; eight feet by eight feet, if she was being generous. Still, maybe she could sleep outside. Or under a rock.

Hawaii wasn’t sure what hit her first, the smell or the pile of dirty clothing, books, and other junk that fell on top of her when she opened the door to Private Grif’s bunk.

“Jesus!”

She was ninety-five percent certain she would have died without her power armor.

Clawing her way out from the debris, she marched away without closing the door. No way she was about to open _that_ can of worms.

Hawaii was beginning to wish she’d gone down with the _MoI_.

Bruised, confused, and ready to shoot something, Agent Hawaii reached the stairs leading to the base’s roof. At this point, she was unsure whether the sound of bickering above was a relief or the precursor to another headache.

Emerging onto the roof, she saw a maroon trooper and an orange one. Simmons and Grif, respectively. They hadn’t noticed her arrival, hadn’t heard her trip on the bullets, the gunshot in the middle of the base or the sound of her swearing as she was crushed by a pile of junk. These might have been the worst soldiers she had ever encountered.

The sim troopers had their backs to her and were in the middle of an argument.

“… not exactly what happened,” Private Simmons protested.

“Yes, it is,” Private Grif retorted. “You said, ‘I’m not going to the Vegas Quadrant’, and the next thing I know you’re in an escape pod headed for—”

“Excuse me, soldiers!” Hawaii interrupted.

The two of them turned to face her.

“Soldiers?” Private Grif said, as if he was skeptical of his own occupation.

“Uh?” Simmons exclaimed, nearly dropping his gun.

“I’ve been sent by Command,” Hawaii stated. “I was told to report here, to uh, Blood Gulch Outpost Al—Number One. Where’s your sergeant?”

“Uh?” Simmons repeated.

“Christ, Simmons,” Grif said, giving an exaggerated helmet roll. He turned to face Hawaii. “Sarge isn’t here. Left for Command to get orders. You wanna talk to him, you’ll have to wait ‘til he gets back. Take a nap. That’s what I would do.”

“Ack—” Simmons’s voice went up three octaves. He coughed and started over, “Actually, Sarge put me in chr- _charge_ while he was away.”

“Kiss ass,” Grif said. “Okay, Simmons, I’ll give you twenty bucks if you can actually hold a conversation with her.”

“Um?” Simmons turned to face Hawaii, who, if she had been a pot of water, was close to boiling the fuck over. His voice cracking, though not as terribly as before, Simmons commanded, “State your bus-business, soldier?”

“Private Dannie Hawaii, reporting for duty,” Hawaii said. She was grateful the sim troopers couldn’t see her wince through her helmet. She hadn’t been ‘Private’ for some time, and it physically hurt to introduce herself as such. Then, with about as much conviction as someone tasked with cleaning a toilet, she added, “Ready to kill some dirty Blues.”

“Okay, two things,” Grif said. “One, Private _Hawaii_? No fuckin’ way I’m calling you that. Two, can I borrow twenty bucks?”

Agent Hawaii began to wonder why she was here.

 

 


	2. First Impressions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> First impressions are important, and California realizes his expectations for this mission were way too high.
> 
> Or-- Cal discovers he's a glorified babysitter.

“You know what? I could blow up the whole goddamn world with this thing.”

California almost took a step back but caught himself.

Not that anyone would have noticed him move. The Alpha and Private Lavernius Tucker were so enchanted by the tank, they probably wouldn’t notice a grenade go off at their feet.

So… _this_ was Alpha? An AI program so classified, he had to hidden in the middle of fucking nowhere? Who he and Hawaii had been sent to protect from Agent Texas? Who Agent Florida (California was convinced he had been poisoned on purpose—who _accidentally_ takes aspirin?) had died protecting?

What an asshole.

And California felt… relieved. He wondered why he wasn’t disappointed. Maybe because he’d been so worried about what… who the Alpha would be.

And, threat to use the tank to destroy the planet notwithstanding, Alpha—Church seemed harmless. Nothing at all like the rumors he’d heard about the AI used by Freelancer’s Alpha-Squad. He’d expected the AI to be emotionless, cold, calculating—like the Director.

Church was the polar opposite of his namesake—loud, angry, and, based on his comment, homicidal. Nothing about him screamed ‘computer program’. Then again, Cal supposed that was the point. Freelancer had put a great amount of effort into convincing the Alpha he was human.

When Cal arrived with the tank, Alph—Private Church and Private Tucker had practically bowled him over to get at the vehicle. California grimaced at the sight of Florida’s old armor. Never felt too strongly about the guy, he’d given Cal the creeps, in fact, but it still bothered him too think about Tucker taking the armor off Florida’s dead body.

Speaking of Tucker. The conversation had turned to the tanks capability to attract women. Church was unamused, scoffing at the idea of Tucker driving around, trying to “pick up chicks”.

“Women are like Voltron,” Tucker was saying. “The more you can hook up, the better it gets.”

“The likelihood of there being any civilian of any gender out here is slim,” California pointed out.

“Hey, rookie?” Tucker turned to face California. “Shut the fuck up. Nobody asked you.”

“Well, all right then, no need to be rude.” California wasn’t quick to anger, but he was starting to wonder how long it would take before he decked Tucker in the face.

Cal was big on first impressions, and Tucker was not leaving a great one. Then again, he’d only been in Blood Gulch for about an hour. It was probably unfair to draw any conclusions. Crass humor notwithstanding.

One thing _was_ clear, however: Tucker was trying very, _very_ hard to impress Church. Cal could see right through that carefully crafted Funny Guy persona Tucker was putting on. Cal was willing to bet Tucker had “picked up” few, if any, women in real life, and he doubted a tank would change that.

“C’mon, Church!” Tucker went back to ignoring California. “Let’s take it for a spin. Maybe that new girl on Red Team will defect and join us!”

Cal choked back a laugh, morphing it into a cough at the last second. Hawaii would waste Tucker before he finished his first pick up line.

“Actually,” Church said, “I’ve already got a girl back home.”

Cal almost dropped his rifle. He knew they’d generated fake memories for the Alpha, but he certainly hadn’t been debriefed on _this_.

“You’ve got a what?” Cal asked before he could stop himself.

“A girlfriend,” Church said. “We were gonna get married but I got shipped out, so.”

“Yeah, I’m never getting married. It just seems like a lot of work, and, ah, I am allergic to things I don’t want to do.”

“Who the fuck?” Tucker cried, echoing Cal’s thoughts.

In unison Cal, Church, and Tucker pivoted around, guns raised. Before them stood one of the tallest people Cal had ever seen. He was almost as big as Maine, clad in blue armor, unfazed by the three guns pointed at his head.

“Hello,” he said.

“Identify yourself,” Church barked.

“Yes, my name is Michael J. Caboose,” the newcomer answered.

“How did you get here?” Tucker asked. Church started to say something but Caboose cut him off.

“Well, uh, see, we were flying and my sergeant told me this was my stop,” Caboose explained. “He told me you would have cookies. Do you have cookies?”

“Who sent you?” Church asked.

“Command,” Caboose answered.

“Blue Command?” Church asked, lowering his gun a few millimeters.

Cal, on the other hand, was doing his best not to pull the trigger. There was no reason for this guy to be here. Why would the Director send in _another_ simulation trooper?

Unless he was with Tex. Cal checked his scanners for heat signatures. Nothing nearby. Wherever Michael J. Caboose had come from, he’d come alone. Cal would have to find an opportunity to check in with Hawaii, see if she’d had any surprise guests.

“Well, um, let’s see…” Caboose looked down at his armor, seeming genuinely perplexed by the question. “My armor is blue… and _you’re_ all blue… so that must mean _it was Blue Command_!”

Cal couldn’t tell if Caboose was being sarcastic or if he was just really stupid.

“Unless…” Caboose shifted his gaze from Church to Cal to Tucker and back to Church. “You painted your armor to make me think _you_ are Blue Team!”

Caboose raised his rifle and proceeded to aim it a good six inches above their heads.

“Do you even have any cookies?” He asked, voice dark.

He was just really stupid.

With a sigh, Cal lowered his weapon. He had a sneaking suspicion that neither Tex nor Project Freelancer had sent Caboose here, and that there was a reason his sergeant had dropped him here.

Tonight’s report was going to be… interesting. Cal might not have been at the top of the leader board—hell, he was on Beta Squad, after all—but he felt a substantial boost in pay was in order if he was going to be babysitting this trio of morons.

California hoped Hawaii had more tolerable company at Red Base.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Caboose arrives (there was no way I wasn't going to have him)!
> 
> This chapter's a little shorter, but I wanted to introduce California. The next chapter will be longer!

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to play with a scenario where Flowers didn't mess up the computer and Agents California and Hawaii had been sent to Blood Gulch instead of Caboose and Donut.
> 
> I plan on adding to this in the future when I have more time (lol, what's that?).


End file.
